Forgive me for a moment; I have to settle this urge of mine. MOTHER FUCKING BITCH MANIFESTO. Sorry, I felt the need to be very aggressive in my assertion of this manifesto. How can you not be? Can we stop for a second and examine some of the implications of this piece? Firstly, it’s encouraging women to be Bitches. Second, it’s encouraging them to be proud of being a Bitch. If that doesn’t rile you up, I don’t know what will!
Anyway, let me get back to what I wanted to talk about. And that is Bitch as Other; Bitch as nothing; Bitch as an uncomfortable contradiction in and of herself. How does a Bitch navigate a world that cringes whenever she breathes; whenever she takes a breath, fills up space, exhales, but doesn’t deflate? Just so we’re all on the same page, that lack of deflation is key. Bitch continues to take up space; continues to dominate the space around her; continues to alienate herself because she is the very thing that people hate to see in anyone but themselves - confident.
I wish I could say I was a Bitch. I wish I could tell the people reading this entry (if there are any reading it, of course) that I had the confidence that is apparent in Bitches. But I don’t. I take up space because I’m loud in my leanings. I’ll discuss with classmates, coworkers, family, and friends my sexuality - that I prefer women to men, that I love women, and I’ll tell them about my partner for as long as they’ll listen (and then longer!). And that makes people uncomfortable, I’m sure, but not in the way that Bitch does. At least I don’t think it does.
Bitches, likewise, don’t care too much for other women. They grow up disliking other women. They can’t relate to them, they don’t identify with them, they have nothing in common with them. Other women have been the norm into which they have not fit.
I need to talk about this passage for a second. It is very important to me. It is the passage which stuck out the most to me. It is the passage that defines me. Me, me, me, right? If I’m so caught up in myself it’s only because I’m so fucking confused about myself. Am I a woman? Well, yes, and no. Am I a man? No, but also yes. I don’t dislike other women. I dislike that I am not them; I do not look like them, but also am so similar to them that my chest hurts. And, of course, this doesn’t make much sense. I’m too hesitant to talk about it. I hope people will accept my cryptic messages.